Under False Pretenses
by Jayda Morgana
Summary: Sherlock's always hated sex, but he's never dared to tell John, for fear that the doctor might leave him. What will he do when the truth finally comes out? Rated M for Johnlock and possible triggers.
1. The Secret

Sherlock smiled thinly under John's weight, his heart racing, listening to those moans and gasps. John was happy, obviously, so he was happy.

"Christ, Sherlock, you feel good," the ex-soldier breathed, massaging Sherlock's semi-hard cock as he pressed in further.

_For John,_ Sherlock reminded himself, sucking in a gasp, _you're doing this for John._

When John came inside him, that was always the worst. Feeling those waves of pleasure above him, those undulations of spine and limbs, those were the most difficult to bear. Obviously he was happy for John, wanted him to feel this way. That's why he did this in the first place.

It wasn't that John was bad in bed-he was better than all the others he'd tried this with, after all. But somehow, he'd been hoping John would be _different_.

He wasn't, though. Sherlock still absolutely, above everything, hated sex.

* * *

Sherlock had never understood it. He'd had sex with several partners and it had never been anything special, much less pleasurable. He'd been desperately hoping that sex with John would be something new, something to make up for all those other blokes from the past. And it hadn't been.

It didn't make sense. He loved John, loved the idea of being intimate - holding, cuddling, spending time together - but there was something about sex he was completely averse to. It was something far beyond his dislike of sentiment; he'd learned to be okay with such feelings long ago. It was just … sex was awkward, uncomfortable, and he never seemed to get any enjoyment out of it, as his partner did.

He knew John liked it, though - loved it, in fact - so he always said yes to John's advances. He wasn't averse to making John happy, after all. He just wasn't happy himself.

Was he asexual? He didn't know. He wasn't entirely sure what the qualifications were, but he felt he came pretty damn close. Perhaps he was something more, something entirely original.

Worst of all, Sherlock feared John would leave him if he ever found out. So he didn't say anything, not for a long while.

* * *

With a convulsive gasp as the orgasm ripped through him, John let out a heavy moan and sank down onto the bed beside Sherlock, breathing heavily. He took Sherlock's hand in his own and massaged in small circles.

"God, Sherlock, you're the best," he said, his grin lopsided. "But Christ, do I need a shower. Joining me, love?"

"Nnn," Sherlock mumbled, his face buried in the pillow. He felt sore and tired.

"I'll take that as a 'no'." John patted his back. "See you soon."

While John was off showering, Sherlock buried himself under a pile of blankets, his chest burning. He hadn't come yet, so he slowly stroked himself until he did. He wasn't averse to touching himself, after all - but he imagined how upset John would be when he found out that Sherlock preferred self-pleasure to that of another. He'd be furious with Sherlock for lying to him.

Sherlock came just as he heard the shower go off. He nestled back into the blankets again, his head of dark curls poking up outside his little fort. There was a lot to get done today - a lot of cases to sort out - but he just couldn't bring himself to think about them, not now. The only thing on his mind was John, and what he was going to do.

John re-entered the bedroom, fresh, shiny, and glisteningly nude. The sight of Sherlock's rumpled head of hair was enough to draw him close again.

"You beautiful git," he murmured, smelling his hair. "Have a good night?"

Sherlock was about to answer in the affirmative, but something stopped him.

"Sherlock?"

John pulled the blankets off his head. Sherlock still maintained a sort of fetal position, curled pitifully in on himself. He looked nothing like the powerful, imposing man John knew so well.

"Sherlock, I can see you're not asleep."

The detective took a short breath. "Come back to bed, John," he said.

"It's covered in - oh, forget it." John curled against Sherlock's prominent spine. "Not eating again, I see. You must have a lot on your mind …?"

"Loads."

John traced his fingers alone Sherlock's back absently. "Sherlock, are you not enjoying what we have right now?"

Sherlock stiffened. "How did you-?"

"Well, I'm not an idiot," John said. "As much as you might like to think so. I don't know what I was expecting, but you've never come with me. And those moans you do? Sherlock, I've seen much better acting from you before, and-"

Sherlock felt sick to his stomach. "John, I-"

"Be honest," John said. "Are you not enjoying this? Our relationship, I mean?"

Sherlock sat up, stiff as a board. "Of course I'm enjoying our relationship," he said. "… Not the sex, though," he amended.

"Sherlock, I-"

"John, I'm sorry."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. His first instinct was to be angry. "Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded, more saddened than anything.

"John, you know I love you. I've never enjoyed sex, though. I'm sorry." Sherlock shook his head dazedly. He couldn't believe the words that were spilling out of his mouth.

"And you - Sherlock, I'm not offended, but … you couldn't even tell me? Not after we've been going at it for a month?"

"I'm sorry." He knew he sounded like a broken record, but he couldn't help himself. John Watson was too good a man for his lies.

… Which was made evident by the fact that John couldn't stand to be there anymore. Without a word he stood up and exited the room.

* * *

Sherlock didn't move from the bed for the rest of the morning. God, he'd fucked things up. He was absolutely furious with himself. Why hadn't he lied, dammit, if only to save the relationship? Their love was about so much more than sex; surely he couldn't kept the act going, if only to save everything else they had together?

But no. Sex put Sherlock in such a state of discomfort. Maybe he could tolerate it every so often, but _every night_, as they'd been doing? It was agonizing.

He heard the door open around noon, as John re-entered the room.

"Please, Sherlock," he said, without preamble. "Be honest. You dislike sex, you said. You don't want it. Are you asexual, or what is it?"

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, sitting up against the pillows. "I love you, John, I really do. I enjoy being close with you. I enjoy making you happy. It's not that I don't enjoy being pleasured - I do it to myself sometimes." He looked embarrassed. "It's not you, I swear. I've never, not once, enjoyed the actual act of intercourse. It's not the emotional aspect of the thing. Even at your most gentle, I haven't enjoyed it. It's just a particular qualm I have." He swallowed. "And if you can't accept that I suppose we'll have to call it off," he finished, suddenly defensive.

"Sherlock …" John stepped close, taking his love's hands, "I have no intention of 'calling it off', as you say. I just needed a moment. The only thing I'm upset about is the lack of honesty, got it? We never, ever have to have sex if you don't want to. _I_ enjoy it, but if you don't, I-"

"I understand if you go and have affairs," Sherlock said with a shrug. "I've reasoned all this out already. It's only logical that you'd want to get off in some other way."

"Sherlock, that's utter bullshit. I'd never-"

Sherlock found himself growing frustrated. "You can't honestly think you'd be willing to remain chaste the rest of your life, John. You say that now, but what about years from now, even days? You'll want to get off somehow."

"Fuck, Sherlock, the mere sight of you gets me off! I don't need to-"

"John." Sherlock stopped him before he could finish. "Love is about making sacrifices, isn't it? Well, then - I'd be willing to have sex with you, say, twice a month? Does that suit you?"

"Love-"

"I can handle that," Sherlock murmured. "I want you happy too, John. Just-not every night. I can't handle every night."

"Oh, my love." John felt tears sting his eyes as he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's lanky frame. "I won't impose myself on you, I swear. I want you to be happy. The only thing I'm upset about is that you never told me. I mean-you always said yes. Always."

"I know."

When they pulled away, John saw there were tears in Sherlock's eyes, too - minute, but still there. "What I was saying earlier, though, it was true," John said. "I get off at the very sight of you. It's a bit ridiculous; you really shouldn't be allowed to cavort about in perfectly-tailored suits like that … or to have such a head of hair … or such a kissable mouth …"

"Kissing, yes. Kissing's good," Sherlock said.

John's mouth met Sherlock's in a fiery flash, warm and passionate. His lips were firm and knowing, guiding Sherlock's plump ones as their tongues meshed together. John let his hands fall to Sherlock's trim waist, Sherlock's to John's strong shoulders. It was more exciting and pleasurable than any of their sex had ever been.

"I love you, you posh git," John complained. "And I am perfectly okay with _this_. Just this."

"Not _just_ this," Sherlock insisted.

"No .. you're right. It's so much more." John smiled against Sherlock's mouth, nuzzling his way down to the crook of the detective's shoulder. "But in unrelated news? You've had several clients come by just this morning. We'd best go contact them and save this for later."

"Perhaps so."

"And Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"I'm glad you told me, I really am."

They made their way downstairs together, hand in hand. John's heart was warm with fire; Sherlock's fluttered with the relief of honesty and even more so, with love.


	2. The Experiment

About a month into their sex-free relationship, John thought back to what Sherlock had said, about remaining chaste forever. Suddenly he was having a hard time imagining it; forever was a long time, after all. He'd never cheat on Sherlock, not ever, but it was hard to imagine being together without such a thing.

One morning over breakfast, John asked the fated question, despite feeling like a total arse for it:

"Sherlock, what sorts of sexual experiences have you had?"

Sherlock gagged on his coffee. "Excuse me?"

"I mean, we only ever did anal. You said it wasn't a control thing, right? Because you topped every so often, too."

" … Right." Sherlock looked perplexed.

"Well, we've never done anything but anal, so …" John didn't know how to voice his thoughts. "When you were with those other blokes, did you ever try anything different? Like a handjob, for example?"

Sherlock snorted. "Really, John, this conversation? At breakfast?"

"Oh, please, Sherlock." John knew Sherlock was evading an answer; he probably felt uncomfortable - not in talking about sex, but in talking about his _own_ responses to it. "I mean, I was just thinking, you said you don't mind masturbating, right? Well, manual stimulation's hardly any different. And-"

"I should have known."

"Uh, what?"

"You're not satisfied."

"It's not that Sherlock-" John began. He coughed awkwardly. "It's just, we haven't explored all the options yet, right? Or maybe you have. You still haven't told me."

"Hm." Sherlock set his coffee cup down. "I had several partners at Uni, and none since … until you. They all ran in the same circles, and could be rather … domineering."

"What are you saying?" John asked.

"They all wanted penetration. I didn't _refuse_, that's not what this is about," Sherlock insisted. "I just never considered anything else. They were big dumb blokes who probably didn't realize there was more to sex than … well, you understand." He folded his hands in front of him to cover their shaking. He wasn't fond of his University memories, but he couldn't seem to delete them, even now.

"Would you be averse to trying something different?" John asked. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Sherlock had never tried anything beyond anal before. There was still a chance.

"It's not even about me," John added, sensing Sherlock's discomfort. "I want you to be happy, too. And I get the feeling you're not entirely satisfied with just kissing and petting, yeah?"

The detective shrugged. John, hating the despondent look on his boyfriend's face, leaned forward and planted a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you, you know."

Sherlock nodded.

"So, is it a yes?"

Sherlock nodded again.

"Whenever you want, love."

"Tonight."

"Tonight?" John's eyebrows shot skyward.

Sherlock stood up, making to exit the kitchen. "Yes, John, I believe I just said that." He swooshed out of the room, leaving John eager with anticipation and yet, still wrought with worry.

* * *

Sherlock curled up before the fire, wrapped in nothing but an afghan, his heart hammering in his chest. John would be home from work soon, and then all would begin.

He didn't care if his thoughts were of the dramatic variety. He knew John wouldn't leave him, but it would be severely disappointing to the both of them if this didn't work out. He wondered if he was, perhaps, even more eager for things to go well than John was.

His hopeful feelings, however, were covered soon enough by those of dread. He thought of those blokes at Uni - one in particular, Vincent Something-Or-Other (God, he couldn't even remember the last name!). He'd been roughly six-four, broad of shoulder and with a personality as imposing as anything. He'd asked to top, and, well … let's just say the experience had been rough. Sherlock had walked around stiff for days - that is, until Vince asked if he could take him again. And so the process continued, for four agonizing months.

Sherlock hated these memories. Goddamn it, he was so lucky that John was staying. He knew that even if nothing worked out, John would still stay. But he wanted John to be happy, and he wanted _himself_ to be happy, too. He couldn't even imagine how great sex must feel, if everyone seemed so desperate to have it, but he wanted that feeling for himself, too … more than he cared to admit.

Soon enough there came John's familiar foot on the stairs, sending Sherlock's heart fluttering. The doctor took off his coat just outside the door. As he entered the sitting-room he was bathed in a warm, comforting glow.

"Hey," John said, tossing his coat on the sofa and approaching the fire. "Someone looks positively adorable tonight."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock said, smiling against John's kiss.

"I've been thinking about you all day," John admitted. "About tonight."

Sherlock shivered.

"If it doesn't work, it doesn't matter," John promised. "I swear to God, Sherlock, I'll never ask anything like this of you ever again."

"I'm ready," Sherlock said, pushing the afghan aside to reveal his nudity, as well as his half-erect cock.

"Oh, Jesus," John said, grinning. "You don't keep a man waiting, do you?" He felt himself go hard under his trousers, and proceeded to strip down, right then and there.

"Now, Sherlock," John said, "I want to make this is pleasurable for you as possible. When you, ahem, masturbate, are you more gentle or rough?"

"Gentle," Sherlock said, scooting over so that John could straddle himself around the detective's gangly limbs.

"Okay, perfect." John rubbed at Sherlock's inner thighs in slow, meditative strokes. "Do you want lube? Or lotion?"

"I usually don't use it," Sherlock murmured, feeling his cock grow harder.

John nodded, positioning himself over Sherlock and slowly beginning to massage his shaft. Sherlock let out a heavy breath as John worked his hand up and down, careful to remain relaxed, despite his own hardening cock. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his head rest against the chair, slumped over in total inhibition, his breath coming in small gasps. John offered up small condolences all the while, especially during the moment he moved back to Sherlock's balls, stroking languidly. Sherlock's back arched, his head thrown back and his hips thrust forward. John continued stroking until Sherlock let out a strangled moan.

"Sherlock-?"

"Keep going," Sherlock begged. His cheeks were flushed, his smile delirious.

John's strokes became quicker, though no less gentle. He alternated as delicately as he could between shaft and balls - that is, until -

"Oh, _fuck_," Sherlock gasped.

- He came, letting out such a luxurious sigh that John felt he couldn't hold himself back, either. After his own climax, he felt against Sherlock, embracing him, holding on for all it was worth. They were both shaking.

"Holy shit," John murmured against Sherlock's ear.

"That-that was … that was good," Sherlock said faintly, his lower lip trembling.

"It was? R-really?"

"It was perfect."

"Oh, God, Sherlock. You don't know how happy that makes me." John held Sherlock at arm's length for a moment, taking in every gorgeous inch of his face, and kissed him square on the mouth. "I'm so glad. So happy for you. For us."

"Me too." Sherlock said, smiling weakly. He remained limp; John's skill had taken a lot out of him.

John beamed; he couldn't believe how ecstatic he felt. There was hope after all.

_Oh, God … there was _hope. It was a miracle like no other.


	3. The Accident

_**Short chapter, my apologies! Hope you enjoy it anyway :)**_

* * *

After the success of the night before, John felt more eager than ever to try new positions, new ways of making love to Sherlock. He knew he was walking a fine line and wanted to make sure everything was perfect.

This, of course, was an expectation bound to be unfulfilled at some point, as was proven one evening about a week after their successful encounter. John had just come home from work, feeling exhausted, but God, who could resist Sherlock in those freshly-tailored trousers, that crisp white shirt? And the way he perched on John's lap, face flushed, humming softly in that rumbling baritone?

"_Jesus,_ Sherlock," John murmured, rubbing at a lanky leg, "I've just come home."

"Mm, I know," Sherlock purred. "Surely you're not too tired, though?"

"Never."

Sherlock swung his hips around so that he was straddling John on the sofa, gyrating his pelvis absently against John's thigh. The doctor felt himself grow hard under his love's touch. Each frot was something akin to an electric current, coursing through his very being.

Before long, John had unbuttoned his trousers, his heart racing and his cock dripping with precome. Sherlock's trousers had disappeared somewhere, too, and he continued to hump as John gently massaged his burgeoning erection.

"Oh, _God,_" Sherlock moaned, as John's other hand massaged a firm buttock.

"Y-you good, love?"

"_Perfect_."

John slowly continued to stroke Sherlock's shaft, allowing his fingers to slip in between Sherlock's buttocks, testing the area. He felt the detective squirm a little. Taking this as affirmation, he pressed in harder, his fingers working their way deeper ...

"Not-not good," Sherlock murmured faintly. "John!"

John slipped his fingers out immediately, aware that Sherlock's cock was no longer hard, and that the detective himself was pale with frustration.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said quickly. "That-wasn't working."

John felt his own cock grow limp. He felt disappointed, sure - not in Sherlock, but at not being able to climax. Oh, well - this was bound to happen, after all; they would try new things, and those things wouldn't always work out.

Sherlock, however, didn't see it so simply. He hopped off John, snatched up his trousers, and left the room at a brisk pace.

"Sherlock!" John called.

There was no response.

* * *

Sherlock remained in the shower for a good hour, his entire body shaking. He hadn't been penetrated by anything in over a month, and he hadn't been overly-thrilled by the idea. Naturally he didn't blame John; he couldn't have known. Fingering was different than having a cock up your arse, after all.

Once he felt fully clean, he stepped out of the shower, wrapped himself in John's robe, and made his way back down to the sitting-room. John was sitting by the empty fireplace, frowning deeply.

"Sherlock, I-"

"I don't like being penetrated," Sherlock said flatly. "That's all there is to it. I'm not angry, John; you couldn't have known." He cleared his throat. "No penetration, by absolutely anything. Okay?"

"Of course," John said. "There _are_ other ways to make love, Sherlock."

"Right."

"I got carried away," John said. "But that's no excuse."

"Okay. Glad we cleared that up." Sherlock sat down in his chair and stared at the empty grate, strangely uncomfortable.

"Sherlock? Come here."

Sherlock looked up to find John smiling encouragingly. He got up and wrapped himself around John as he had earlier, though not with the pretense of frotting. There was a moment of comfortable silence in which John petted Sherlock's curls maternally.

"Anything on today?" John asked, by way of conversation.

"Not particularly."

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"You're still disappointed," Sherlock insisted.

"Initially I was, yes," John admitted, "But only because I was about to come. Only right in that moment. I'm perfectly okay now, and this worked out for the better. You got it, you massive git?"

"Mm-hm." Sherlock was secretly glad for this reassurance.

"You know I love you, right?"

Sherlock snorted. "And I you, though of course I'm not one for sentiment …"

John rolled his eyes. "We can try this again, Sherlock, at your leisure," he promised. "Whenever you're ready, I promise."

The detective nodded. There was nothing more to be said, after all.


	4. The Memory

_**** Trigger Warning: Mentions of possible rape in this chapter, but it's left to your interpretation. And don't worry, it's not between John and Sherlock … it never would be, I promise.**_

* * *

"Sherlock, what in God's name-?"

"I'm doing research, John, what of it?"

"Surely you know other positions than-oh, nevermind."

John couldn't believe what he was seeing. Sherlock was on John's laptop, on the Wikipedia page for "Types of Non-Penetrative Sex". The ex-soldier didn't know whether to laugh or to feel pity.

"I thought you were a genius, Sherlock."

The detective looked hurt. "I'm exploring our options," he said quietly. "There are several - not many I hadn't already considered, but that's of no concern. I was thinking, we haven't tried oral yet."

"No," John said, a grin lighting his face, "We certainly haven't."

"Saving the best for last, I suppose."

"That's right."

John settled into a grin as Sherlock clicked off the page with a sigh.

* * *

"Hey, love?"

"Hm?"

"You've never really told me why you didn't like … erm, didn't like penetration."

Sherlock rolled over in the darkness, burying his face into John's shoulder. "Are you expecting some kind of deep psychological reason? Because there isn't one," he murmured.

"Okay. Just wanted to make sure."

"I mean …" Sherlock swallowed. "I suppose it might've been those previous boyfriends, from Uni. They weren't exactly gentle."

"I'm sorry." John couldn't even imagine. Even if Sherlock had said yes, it wasn't fair to be that rough with anyone - especially since Sherlock seemed to prefer less-forceful sex, after all.

"There is something, though," Sherlock murmured.

"Yeah?"

"When we were having anal before, I saw things sometimes. In my Mind Palace."

"What?" John tried not to sound too eager, but he wanted so desperately to know. This sounded important, after all.

"An empty room, with empty boxes. Like I'd deleted a memory, or something." Sherlock swallowed heavily. "Something to do with penetration." His voice quivered unnaturally. "I don't wish to know what it could be, John. I think I'm better off not knowing."

"But it was such a powerful memory that you deleted it," John said blankly, desperate for something, anything, to do with this information. Everything was so up in the air; if Sherlock had been wronged, somehow, he didn't know whom to accuse or whom to beat to a pulp. He didn't want to assume too much, especially if Sherlock didn't know of any perpetrator himself ...

"Don't pity me, John," Sherlock said, his voice flat. "I swear if you pity me-"

"I'm not saying I do," John said. "But I am absolutely furious. I can't even believe … oh, God …" He felt tears prick his eyes.

"I just assume it was someone from Uni," Sherlock said with a small shrug. "And I leave it at that. I just wanted you to know, alright?"

"Right."

"You're still okay with how we stand? In regards to sex?"

"More okay than ever."

"Even though I don't think I'll ever want to be penetrated, again?"

"Seriously, Sherlock, nothing could convince me otherwise. I'd never do something you didn't want. I promise you that."

"Thank you." Sherlock thought once more of the empty boxes, the bizarrely barren room. Without another thought he deleted that room from his Mind Palace entirely, glad for the liberation. With a sigh he curled into John, allowing the army doctor's soft sighs to lull him to sleep.

* * *

About a week later, after a string of successful cases, Sherlock decided he wanted John, badly. No, scratch that - he _needed_ John, with every inch of his being, right then and there. And 'right then and there' meant right in Lestrade's office. And something entirely new. Oh, yes, something new indeed.

"Seriously, Sherlock!?" John gasped, choking on his giggles, "Right in Greg's office? Christ, you're full of-"

"We have a few minutes," Sherlock said urgently. "Lestrade's filing the case." He pulled out his puppy-dog eyes, big and somber. "_Please_, John."

"Are you begging?"

"Of course not. I'm requesting."

"Hmph. Whatever you say." John bit back a smile as he locked Lestrade's office door and pulled the curtains. He acted the part of Captain John Watson and commanded that Sherlock unzip his trousers.

"Pushy, aren't we?" Sherlock said, strangely aroused.

"If we're doing this in Greg's office, we're doing it my way," John said, his lip curling into a grin. "Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Sherlock unzipped, revealing his long, pulsating cock. Before he knew it, John had him in one of the office chairs and was kneeling before him, delirious at the sight of Sherlock's arousal and at feeling his trembles of pleasure. Without further ado, John leaned forward and took Sherlock's cock in his mouth.

Sherlock leaned his head back, gasping without inhibition as John moved his mouth up and John, sucking needily at the burgeoning erection. Sherlock squirmed excitedly and, to his great surprise, felt John take his entire erect cock into his mouth, back into his throat. His suckling grew harder and more urgent than ever.

"Jesus, John!" Sherlock cried.

John, his own member hard as a rock, soon felt the orgasm rip through him, just as Sherlock did, straight into John's open mouth. John had no choice but to swallow, though he knew he wouldn't have done it any other way.

"Hey, what's going on in there!?" a voice cried.

John, the more experienced of the two, cleaned himself up as much as he was able. Sherlock, meanwhile, couldn't seem to move, a look of surprise on his flushed face.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Oh, G-God," Sherlock breathed. "That was excellent." He giggled uncharacteristically. "You-you completely swallowed-"

"Yes, Sherlock, that's called deep throating," John said, pretending to talk to a child, "Or didn't the Wikipedia page tell you? Hurry up, pull up your zip before Greg comes in. That's an order."

"Yes, sir."

"Hey, let me in!" Lestrade pounded at the door, sounding exasperated.

"So, Sherlock," John asked. "Was that good?"

"Yes, very good," Sherlock said with a purr, just as Lestrade slammed the door open.

"What're you two doing in here?" he demanded, looking nervous. He knew they were dating and was ready to assume the worst. If he had known that John Watson had just deep throated the consulting detective in his very own office chair, well … let's just say it was better off that he wasn't entirely certain. John and Sherlock, meanwhile, could not have been more pleased, with their ability to keeps things under wraps, among other things.

* * *

John watched Sherlock closely on the cab ride home. Despite their more-than-enjoyable escapade in Lestrade's office, he still worried about what Sherlock had told him previously, about the empty boxes. Not only did it concern him deeply, but it fueled a rage in him like no other. It didn't matter that he didn't completely understand what had happened; John was almost fully convinced someone had imposed themselves on his love. He wanted nothing more than to seek some sort of revenge, in some way, shape or form.

The more he watched Sherlock, however, the less vengeful he felt. If Sherlock didn't want anything done about what had happened before, then John would respect his wishes. Besides, it had all happened so long ago. If Sherlock had chosen to delete the memory, then John would do his best to forget, too. Wasn't it enough that Sherlock was happy _now?_

John took Sherlock's large hand in his own, deciding that _yes_, it was certainly more than enough, and always would be.


	5. The Conclusion

John stood in the doorway, looking as strong and capable as ever, but considerably more worn. He tossed his coat aside irritably and turned to enter the sitting-room.

"You really shouldn't work so much, John," Sherlock said, without looking up from his place on the sofa. "You sound as if you're about to collapse at any minute."

"Right you are," John murmured, sitting down on the floor beside Sherlock's head, "And the patients I had today? God, I just about checked into the office myself."

Sherlock nodded absently and sat up, positioning himself just behind John. He rubbed the doctor's shoulders in slow, steady circles. "Well you're off tomorrow," he said, his deep baritone soothing, "And the next day." The rubbing grew more urgent. "Besides, you've an entire night to spend with me; what could be better?"

John laughed. "Not much."

"Not _anything_."

John leaned his head back, sinking into Sherlock's strong hands, inhaling deep, steady breaths as Sherlock massaged his scalp. His mind drifted off, and he thought of those very hands in very different areas ...

"Sherlock," John murmured, "You're the best."

"That's more like it," the detective said with a soft snort. As if reading John's mind, he leaned forward and began deeply rubbing at John's upper arms, working his way down to his chest and sides. The doctor let out a ragged breath, his back arching forward in a pleasant undulation.

"Keep going," he whispered.

John had more or less scooted forward to accommodate Sherlock, who was now sitting behind him, creating friction between his hands and John's hips. John could feel Sherlock's erection against the rear of his trousers, and he felt himself go hard as well.

"Take off your trousers," Sherlock said, in a not-altogether commanding voice.

John complied, turning to face Sherlock, whose pyjama bottoms had been tossed aside. Sherlock rubbed at John's inner thighs, dangerously close to his groin. John's erection was hard, almost painful - Sherlock's no different.

"Please, Sherlock-" John begged, taking one of the detective's hands and covering his own cock with it.

Sherlock, for never having administered such a thing, was surprisingly adept. His hand worked in strong, urgent strokes as he leaned forward, planting a series of kisses along John's jaw.

John, though deep in a bout of pleasure, was vaguely aware that he ought to be reciprocating. He reminded himself to be as gentle as possible as he caressed Sherlock, ran his hand along that glorious shaft, massaged the firm balls ...

"_Mrrhmph_," Sherlock moaned, suckling at John's neck. That uninhibited noise only encouraged John further; he stroked with more urgency as Sherlock continued to straddle him, breathing heavily against him as he worked John's own shaft.

They both came around the same time, in a moment of utter delirium. Sherlock struggled to remained upright and eventually gave in, collapsing against John and sending him back against the floor. John giggled confusedly as he pulled his hand away, wrestling Sherlock onto the rug and kneading at those soft curls.

"Talk about a way to come home," he said, his smile big and goofy.

"You do so much for me," Sherlock said. "I thought I'd return the favor."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"This? This is great. Just great. I'm so goddamned lucky, you know that?"

"Obviously."

John rolled his eyes. "Egotistic nutter."

Sherlock smiled up at him, his lips big and plush, his eyes still a bit dilated. His red dressing-gown, still more-or-less wrapped about his frame, fanned out around him like some sort of prince. Beneath it he remained as gloriously nude and rosy as ever. John knew Sherlock didn't take his insults seriously, but then again, how could one not be a bit egotistical, if one looked anything like Sherlock?

These thoughts reminded John of what Sherlock had told him in days previous, about those memories he'd deleted. They still started up a vague flame in his belly, but he'd decided long ago that as long as Sherlock was happy now, he wouldn't let those thoughts consume him. That's all that mattered, really - that Sherlock was happy - and that he was happy, too. In those moments, he thought nothing of the lack of penetrative intercourse - nothing whatsoever. He was so ridiculously elated that he knew nothing other than their current relationship … and besides, nothing else would ever do.

"Come to bed?" Sherlock asked, from his place on the floor.

"What is it, seven-thirty?"

"Problem?"

John laughed. "S'pose not. Let's go."

John knew, deep down, that he'd never be able to fully delete what Sherlock had told him, as the detective himself had done. It didn't matter, though, because for the time being he had forgotten, and would continue to forget. Who would dare remember such foul things, after all, when they had the world's most adorable consulting detective curled up in bed with them?

_I'd be a nutter myself to think of anything else,_ John thought, kissing Sherlock on the mouth before he drifted to sleep.


End file.
